What is Right
by ArtemisUndergoingMitosis
Summary: Post Kotor II The Exile has fled from Malachor, but now she and her companions must forge new lives for themselves. Will she be strong enough to do the right thing in the end? Will she be wise enough to know what that is? Atton/Exile, Carth/Revan
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Shayla Breyis watched the shuttles move between the modules of Citadel Station and was encouraged by the amount of life that seemed to exist on the station. It was good that the people of Telos were returning. It was good that the Ithorians would complete their project, that Visas' master was not allowed to destroy them all, that she had accomplished _something_ on her journey. Sometimes she forgot that.

Now, however, Shayla was waiting outside a different room in the medical bay than the one where she had spent the last week and a half. She was waiting to see an old friend, someone she had promised to come back for. Someone that lost herself—a feeling Shayla could definitely relate to. The ache in the pit of her stomach told her it was all for nothing, that she was too late. That it was too late to save Atris months ago, when she didn't recognize the corruption during that first visit. That somehow, she had lost her chance to save her when she didn't even try.

Bao-Dur's remote beeped woefully behind her, expressing his concern. The exile closed her eyes and shook her head, murmuring that she was alright. It wasn't fair that Bao-Dur was not there, that he no longer stood behind her, the tiny droid at his shoulder. It wasn't right that the Force had taken him. It wasn't right that he was dead.

"Master Breyis?" a human healer called, and Shayla perked up.

"This is she."

"You can come in. She's willing to see you." The healer smiled as she opened the door, but Shayla could feel herself shaking like a leaf as she entered the room. The gash on her arm was beginning to ache, and she could feel every stitch in her head. Her broken leg had not yet healed properly, and she still walked with a pronounced limp. Maybe she should have waited to leave her own bed for awhile longer. But she needed to see Atris, to try to put things right.

She was broken, perhaps more broken than when Shayla had last seen her. Her icy blue eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling, and her alabaster skin had taken on an ashy tone. The smell of kolto permeated the air, and the simple square room contrasted sharply with the great chambers that Atris had left on the planet's surface. When Shayla closed the door behind her, Atris turned her head. She looked far older than her years, lying there in that bed. The only thing Shayla could think was that she looked so different from the older padawan that she had met on Dantooine, that she looked so much different from the Atris she had known since childhood.

"Why did you come here?" Atris whispered, turning her head back to the ceiling. _I came to save you_, Shayla said. But that is not something that one says aloud.

"I came to see you," she said lamely. The urge to cry seized her, but she fought off the tears. She had shed too many tears of late.

"But why?"

"Because we were friends, once. Long ago."

"Were we? I suppose you were my friend. It seems like an eternity since I was a Padawan and you were that small apprentice. You were so good, so light, even then."

"It does seem like a long time. We were all good then."

"Not me. I was a selfish child, I was ambitious. I stayed because I was scared. I stayed because I was obedient. You left because you were _good_." Shayla stared at her, unsure of what to say. _She loved you, as one loves a hero_. Her voice echoed in her head still. Shayla wondered if she would ever be free of the old woman that had made her whole and then broken her, that had brought her to her friends and then ripped them away.

"Atris, we were all afraid. You did what you thought was right. I did what I thought was right. What more can we ask of ourselves?"

"We can ask for the wisdom to know right from wrong." Shayla had no argument for that—it was something that she too had wanted. But certainty seemed to be an unattainable ideal. In the end, life is a game of chance. No person, not even a Jedi, can know where the coin will fall. She almost chuckled—now she was thinking in gambling metaphors. She needed to spend less time with Atton.

"I still don't know why you are here. If there is something you need to say, say it and be gone," Atris said. Her words were angry, but her tone was exhausted.

"Atris, I just want you to know—this isn't the end. You can recover from this. You can still be a good person." Atris laughed then, a hollow and frightening thing.

"You came here to _save me_? There is no saving me. I am not a Jedi, and I am not truly a Sith. What am I? The empty shell of a woman. The shadow of myself."

"But it doesn't have to be that way forever. You can move past this."

"Can I? Can _you_?" Shayla froze as Atris' hollow eyes fixed onto her own.

"Wh-what do you mean?"

"I sense a shadow in you that I have never sensed before. Even as I condemned you so many years ago, I did not sense it. I thought the aura I felt from you then was some trick of the Dark side of the Force. But I was wrong. What you have now, though, is a shadow. You seem to me more gray than blue." Shayla shivered. She recalled the anger that flowed through her as she had cut down Kreia. She remembered the hurt as she cradled Bao-Dur's body. Did that add a shadow? Was a shadow better than a wound?

Atris murmured something too quiet for Shayla to hear.

"What did you say?" Atris turned toward her, the eyes burning holes in her skull.

"Such a quiet thing, to fall. But far more terrible is to admit it," she repeated a little louder.

"I haven't fallen, Atris."

"No. But I have. A quiet thing. It could happen to you, too."

"You can get up after a fall, you know."

"It would take someone a lot stronger than myself to do so."

"You are strong, Atris. You are the last of the old Jedi Council. Be strong." Atris did not respond for a minute, and the silence hung heavily in the air.

"Leave me now. I am tired," she said suddenly, turning away again.

"Goodbye, Atris," Shayla Breyis, last of the Jedi, murmured.

"Such a quiet thing," Atris whispered one last time. Shayla shivered as she limped away, brushing past the healer to return to her own bed and hoping beyon reason that she didn't hear Kreia's voice in her dreams again.


	2. Chapter 2

Mira watched quietly as the flames engulfed the body, sensing the tiny blip in the Force that the death had left behind. Around her, she felt Atton's concern for Shay, the Disciple's pensive remembrance, Visas' silent battle between satisfaction and grief, Mandalore's usual muddle of emotions tempered with an unusual overtone of sorrow, and the tight ball of emotion that radiated from the group of white clad women that stood apart from the crew of the Ebon Hawk. Mostly, though, she felt the overwhelming tide of anguish through her bond with Shayla—the Exile, her friend.

Mira knew that all of the Force users around her could feel that rush of emotion, though the Jedi herself remained stoic. Mira knew that it was Shayla who told the Telosian medics to go to the empty academy at the pole to find Atris. It was Shayla that had spared her life on the planet's surface. It was Shayla who had visited Atris, Shayla who had tried to save her. Shayla who had insisted that she receive a Jedi's funeral. She had been found hanging from the ceiling of her room in the medical bay, and a part of Mira thought her corpse deserved to be spaced for all the pain she had caused Shayla. Part of her hated the fact that this woman who had wanted them all dead received a true funeral, while Bao-Dur was left behind on Malachor V, his remains doomed to float through the cold vacuum of space with the remnants of that cursed place. Mira was afraid of that part of her.

Time passed, the flames died down. Nothing but ash was left behind, ash and that tiny blip in the Force. The silence was overwhelming, and she was grateful when Mandalore was the first to turn and leave. She followed him quietly, wanting to escape this scene of death to find herself a stool in a crowded cantina so she could drown herself in the white noise of life. Apparently, Mandalore had similar plans.

He sat down at the bar and took off his helmet, exposing his scarred face to the world, an occurrence that was becoming more and more common. He ordered Correllian Whiskey, Mira only an ice water.

"Why come to a bar for a glass of water?" the older man asked, his thick arms leaning against the counter in front of him.

"Atmosphere," she replied. Mira didn't drink—she didn't like the way it clouded her senses. She wanted to feel the life around her, not become numb to it.

"I never met her," Mandalore said, staring into his drink. There was no question to whom he was referring.

"Me either."

"All I know about her is that she caused a hell of a lot of trouble for us." The Mandalorian sighed and took a deep swig of his drink. Mira was suddenly struck by how old he looked, how empty. She wondered if she looked the same now. Not old, but empty. She certainly felt empty. Wasn't the Force supposed to fill her, not drain her? Wasn't she supposed to find purpose on their journey?

"Shay really wanted a Jedi's funeral for her. Something must have happened back at the Academy."

"Yeah, and she's not telling any of us what it was."

"Shay loves her secrets." Mandalore snorted at his companion's comment, shaking his head.

"That one's a better Jedi than she likes to admit."

"Tell me about it." Silence fell between the two of them, and Mira closed her eyes, feeling the life around her. The air was saturated with alcohol and gambling and sex—staples in the great rhythm of life. These people were celebrating, they were mourning, they were trying to forget and trying to remember. They had futures and goals and lives. Mira sank into the sheer normalcy of the place. In that way, she missed hunting. It was a job, just like everybody's got. If she wasn't a hunter anymore, what was she? There weren't any Jedi, no matter how much Mical tried to wish them into existence. And even if there were, the thought of spending the rest of her life teaching children to wield a force that she wasn't sure was benevolent didn't appeal to her in the slightest.

She knew that the cantina she sat in wouldn't exist without her. She knew that she had helped save entire planets, if not the Galaxy. At the very least, she aided the Republic. And yet, she felt empty, like the journey itself had ripped out any purpose that her life had held. Or maybe it just made her painfully aware of the fact that she never truly had a purpose. It all amounted to the same thing—Mira was lost, and the only way she knew how to deal was to try desperately to forget.

"You okay, kid?" Mandalore asked, concern coloring his gravelly voice.

"I'm fine," she replied, old walls throwing themselves up at the question. It scared Mira that they came back so easily. Old habits die hard, she guessed. The thought left a bitter taste in her mouth.

She sighed, looking at her nearly full glass. "She's leaving, you know."

"Who, the Exile?"

"Yeah."

"I figured. Now that the bitch is dead, she won't stick around for very long. Hell, she might even be gone now."

"Not yet. I can still feel her on the station. She blocks us a lot now, but it's harder for her when she's in pain—physical or emotional. Right now, she's dealing with both."

"It won't be long now, in any case. You thought about what you're going to do when she takes off?"

"Mical and Visas want me to help them rebuild the Jedi Order." Actually, Visas had cornered her and told her that "the Force had a plan for all of us" and that Mira needed to "do her part." Mira told her to shove it.

"You don't sound too excited."

"Well, what we've seen of the Jedi hasn't been exactly flattering."

"I've met a few decent ones," Mandalore said, a hint of amusement creeping into his expression. Mira looked at him in surprise—she didn't think he was referring to anyone that she had encountered. "In fact, I can probably locate at least one of them for you. Probably two, maybe three."

"You know of the whereabouts of three separate Jedi?" Mandalore grinned as he took another swig of the whiskey.

"Not really. I've been a little disconnected from the old crew. But I know a couple of people who are bound to know. You interested?" Mira tried to control her excitement. She liked this idea—it was like a hunt, which appealed to her, _and _it would keep Mical and Visas off her back.

"Yeah, I think I am," she said, leaning forward slightly and taking a sip of her water.

"I thought you would be. You may not be a Mandalorian by blood, but you certainly are in spirit."

"High praise, Mandalore."

"I tell the truth. Now, if you want to find your Jedi, you should go to Coruscant and find a blue twi'lek named Mission Vao. She lives a couple of kilometers west of the Senate District—here, I'll give you her apartment number." Mira watched with interest as the Mandalorian took out a blank data pad and entered the information. He slipped the data pad to her and Mira pocketed it. "Tell her that Canderous Ordo sent you to find Little Blue. Ask about Jolee Bindo—I'm almost certain the old man still checks up on her."

"Not the Jolee Bindo that Mical went on and on about that night on our way to Korriban?"

"The very same."

"You keep very interesting company," Mira said, finishing her water and taking out a credit chip for the bartender. She hated to take up space on a bar and leave without paying for anything. Besides, she was eager to get out of there and start her hunt. She could feel that familiar itch for finding her target, she had slipped back into her hunting space—she was more aware, more focused. It was like the Force, but there was a direction to it, a purpose. Mira almost grinned.

"If she doesn't know, you can find me on Dxun. Hell, if you decide Jedi are too much trouble, you can come join us. We could use a warrior like you."

"Thanks, Mandalore. I'm really glad you decided to have a whiskey today."

"No problem. And remember—Dxun," he growled and walked away. Mira practically skipped back to her apartment. There were plans to make, a ship to catch, things to pack. Mira stayed up later than she should have scribbling down notes and researching her target.

When she finally woke, she stretched and rolled her shoulders before she realized that something was wrong. She could no longer feel the dull ache of Shayla's injuries. Her mouth fell open in shock as a single though ran through her head. _Shayla is gone_.


	3. Chapter 3

Atton Rand awoke in his bed from a nightmare. Images flashed through his mind as he tried to remember what it had been about. He saw Malachor and Shayla lying broken on the ground, but clearest of all were Kreia's bone white eyes, burning through his skull even in their blindness. He banished the memory, but he could not shake his uneasiness.

It took a moment for him to realize why he had awoken—someone was banging on the door to his apartment, and he thought he could hear a high pitched whistle. He groaned and rolled out of bed, staggering towards the door, snatching his double bladed lightsaber off of his bedside table.

"Who is it?" he called, blinking the sleep away from his eyes. He squinted at the clock on the other side of the room. "Four a.m.," he muttered, cursing whoever was on the other side. He was answered with by a series of chirps and beeps and a few more knocks.

"Stupid trash compactor! Go away!" Atton called, feeling the anger rise in his gut. He would tear that stupid bucket of bolts apart. It was four a.m. _Four a.m._

"Statement: The "trash compactor," as you say, is here to inform you that Master is leaving Citadel Station. If you hurry you might catch her. Mocking Query: But you wouldn't care about that, would you pazaack meat bag?" Even before the homicidal droid finished speaking, Atton was dashing across the apartment, pulling on his black pants and searching for his left boot.

"Statement: It would seem that the pazaack meatbag really does _not _care about the Master. I must ask someone to tune my circuitry, for I was sure that I had analyzed the situation correctly. I was certain that he was madly, hopelessly, and inexplicably in love with—"

"I'M COMING, DAMMIT!" Atton shouted, punching the door controls as he finally located his missing boot. He grabbed his leather vest as he swept out of the door, looking expectedly at the rust colored droid. "So? What dock is she headed for?"

"Relieved Statement: Oh, good. It seems that my behavioral analysis programming remains intact. The pazaack meatbag is acting as expected." The smaller droid buzzed in annoyance and started racing down the corridor towards the shuttle station. Atton cursed and followed it, hoping that the little silver bucket of bolts knew where it was going.

The only other living thing on the shuttle at this time in the morning was a sickly looking kath hound pup. Atton had no idea where it came from, but if he'd had a blaster, he would have shot it just to stop its incessant whining. It was probably a good thing that he'd only brought his lightsaber. Pulling that out would have attracted more attention than he was willing to deal with.

As soon as the ramp went down, Atton dashed out of the shuttle, following T3 to a private docking bay. An angry looking twi'lek stood guard at the door, and Atton cursed loudly.

"I need to get in there," Atton said, pointing at the door. The guard merely looked at him and raised his brow. "Look, there is no time to explain, but I really, really, need to get in there."

"There is a shuttle about to take off. Even if you had permission to be on the dock, I couldn't let you in for safety reasons." Atton closed his eyes tightly, trying to clear his mind so he could find the current of the Force. If he could manage that trick where Shay would layer her voice with the Force, he could get him to open the door, and he could find Shayla and make her stay. He was almost there when he heard a high pitched squeal that could have only come from the trash compactor.

He opened his eyes to see the little droid run headlong into the computer that controlled the docking bay doors, firing his flamethrower and shocking the system at the same time before crashing into the wreckage in a flurry of bolts and half melted computer. Miraculously, the door opened, leaving a very confused security guard to watch Atton and the other droid sprint into the docking bay area.

"SHAY!" Atton bellowed over the sound of the ships engine, seeking out her face with his eyes and seeking out her aura with the Force. He found her inside the ship on the starboard side, where his eyes could never have found her. He ended the pazaack game he was playing his head, and emptied his mind of all thoughts except one: _Get off that ship right now, Shayla Breyis._

But no matter how loud he shouted or how fiercely he projected his thoughts, he could not stop the ship, and whoever was piloting it ignored him completely. _I know you can hear me, Shay. I know it. Stop the ship._ She didn't. The ship started its thrusters, and took off, the force from the take off, propelling Atton into HK's metal frame, and the pair of them tumbled to the ground in a tangle of man and machine. Atton let out yet another stream of expletives, utilizing every language he knew, hoping spitefully that Shay could hear them echo through her skull.

"Request: Please lower you voice, pazaack meatbag. You are damaging my audio receptors." Atton shut his mouth, realizing that without the noise of the ship's engine, his shouting had attracted quite a bit of attention.

"Sorry," he muttered, trying to slink away from the angry looking security guard. "I'll just be going now." He winced when he saw the uniformed TSF officers standing around the mangled remains of the still beeping trash compactor.

"Is this your droid, sir?"

"Uh, no actually." _Damn_, Atton thought as the officer raised his eyebrow in disbelief. "Well, it's not!" Atton shouted. He shook his head, seeing that this argument was going to get him nowhere, and he certainly wasn't going to get any help from the droids. _I hate droids_, he thought bitterly, glaring at HK-47.

"We're going to have to take you in," the officer said, pointing his blaster at Atton. He thought about pulling out his lightsaber and shouting "Jedi business!" It always seemed to work in holovids, but he had a feeling that pulling out a Jedi weapon here would do little to diffuse the situation. More likely it would bring every two-bit bounty hunter on the station out of the woodwork. Now _that _would be just great. There wouldn't even be anyone to pay them if they did manage to kill him. So he did the only thing he could think of—he went quietly. Maybe he could call in a favor with Grenn, but he doubted it. _Great. I'm going back to prison. Again._

* * *

Twelve and a half hours later, Atton Rand sat in the Cantina on Citadel station, staring at the bottom of his glass of juma juice. _The first of many_, he thought.

Grenn had been less than cooperative, but he did weasel his way into a phone call. He convinced Mira and her cleavage to come to the holding cells so she could spin some tall tale to get him out before his holders even realized that she had a face. Mercifully, Mira wasn't asking any questions, and she let him go on his way. That was why he called her instead of Visas or Mical. Well, that and the cleavage.

The first thing he did was pay some mechanic to fix the trash compactor—he would need that little bugger to crack the Hawk's navicomputer. In the meantime, Atton was stuck, so he did what he always did—drown his sorrows in gallons of liquor.

"You're the Exile's pilot, correct?" someone said, settling into the stool next to him. Atton looked up only to see the Admiral that had met with the Exile, the one who took them in on the station after Malachor V. He tensed, suddenly resuming his mental listing of hyperspace routes on the Kessel run. He couldn't let his guard down no matter how much he was worried about Shay.

"Yeah. You're that Admiral, right?"

"Uhuh. Do you…" the other man trailed off and stared at the counter. "Do you know where she went?"

"Ha. Well, that's the trouble isn't it? I don't know where to find her."

"You drinking anything tonight, Admiral?" the bartender asked while setting another glass on the table for the ex-smuggler beside him.

"Do you have any Tarisian Ale?" Atton looked at him appreciatively. That was some pretty strong stuff.

"No, sorry, sir. It's tough stuff to get a hold of these days."

"Corellian whiskey then," Onasi said with a sigh.

"You got it."

"Tarisian Ale, huh? Your day must have been worse than mine," Atton said, glancing at the other man and taking another swig of his juma juice.

"Just trying to remember."

"That's not something normally achieved by that particular drink, just in case you were wondering." The admiral glared at him, and Atton felt the old urge to run come up from his gut.

"Okay, okay. Remembering, I get it," he said instead. Besides, he was at the bar first—he wouldn't be chased away by somebody else, no matter how important he was. They sat in silence for awhile, each holding their separate cups.

"I know you served the Republic during the Mandalorian Wars."

"Yep," Atton said, not looking the other man in the eye. This was not a topic of conversation he was really willing to pursue. The last thing he needed was an angry Admiral fighting him in a bar. Then again, it might serve to relieve what tension the juma juice didn't take care of on its own.

"And after?"

"Look, I don't really want to discuss my past."

"You left with Revan and Malak."

"I don't feel the need to justify my actions to you. Let's just say it's not a time in my life I'm exceedingly proud of."

"No, that's not what I meant. I just wanted to know, if…well…you knew her."

"Her?"

"Revan." Atton glanced at the man next to him, noting his pained expression and the lines next to his eyes.

"No, I didn't know her. I was just a soldier, a nobody." _A killer_, a little voice in his head whispered, but he shook it away. He would be better, he would be better because Shay had believed in him.

"I knew her," the admiral said after some silence.

"I know. Shay told me."

"I loved her."

"I know."

"You love the Exile." It was not a question. Atton didn't say anything for a minute; he just stared at his empty glass until the bartender came with a fresh one. He considered lying, but he knew that it was useless.

"Yeah, I do."

"And that's why you have to let her go." Atton looked at Carth, suddenly sitting up straighter.

"No, _Admiral_. That's why I have to go after her."

"But she wanted you to stay."

"I don't always do everything I'm told." Atton said, his mouth quirking into a small smile. Stubborn, Shayla had called him. Intractable. The Jedi would never have agreed to train him. And Atton would only grin and toss his hair, because he knew it would make her smile. She needed to smile, especially when there was so much darkness in the world.

"But…"

"Look, I'm not trying to judge you. We are under different circumstances."

"How so?"

"There are people here that need you. Depend on you. The only person that ever gave a damn about me just flew into space by herself. Probably to get herself killed. And I can't let that happen."

"You could help rebuild the Jedi Order. Isn't that what she wanted you to do?"

"I guess. But that's really Blondie's job. And Mira's, I guess. Visas', too. I was never cut out for the whole Jedi Master routine."

"But what about leaving behind all those that she loves?"

"Well, I never trusted that old hag as much as Shay did, and besides, most of the time, Shay has no idea what's best for her."

"She seemed the capable sort."

"You don't know her like I do. She's just had the Jedi council tell her that her existence is a danger to the galaxy, a hag who she trusted just tried to kill her, and one of her best friends just died. She's not okay right now." _And she just _left. _Dammit Shay, why is it always you that has to go rushing in to save the day? Why not leave a little galaxy saving for everyone else?_

"You think that she'll fall to the darkside? Could she be a danger to Revan?"

"The darkside? Of course not! Shay doesn't have it in her to go dark. At least not really. But she could definitely break down. She's been through a lot."

"And you think you're the one to save her?

"Yeah, I do." Carth looked at the other man, and Atton sighed and picked up another fresh glass. "Look, I'm the only one who sees her for who she is. I see _her_."

"And nobody else does? I find that hard to believe."

"Blondie still sees that Jedi that was supposed to train him before she went off to war. Visas sees her rescuer; Mira sees this invincible Jedi. They see an ideal, and I see a woman who needs protecting just like everyone else does." The admiral studied him for a moment, watching him. Again, Atton squirmed under his gaze. Looking people straight in the eye was not something he was used to. But the fact that he was still in that cantina was proof that he was trying. Though, it could just be the copious amounts of alcohol that gave him courage.

"So you're going."

"Yeah."

"Well, good luck, soldier."

"I'm not a soldier anymore." Carth Onasi studied him for a moment before responding, but Atton did not flinch.

"Well, then, good luck, Jedi."

"I'm not a Jedi either."

"You better hope you are, or you'll never find them." Carth finished his drink and left, leaving Atton alone at the bar again.

"Another juma," he called to the bartender, who only smiled and slid him another glass.


	4. Chapter 4

Shayla Breyis crept out of her apartment on Citadel Station, a pack on her back with all of the essentials—a few changes of clothes, a small collection of kolto packs, all the credits she could scrounge up, and a blaster—just in case. Her only companion was the now ever-present remote. She had convinced her pilot to leave in the middle of the night to avoid any confrontation with Atton—though it had required a little push from the Force to convince him it was a good idea. Atton was the only one of her companions to protest when she said she needed to go alone. Not even Mical had tried to stop her. He and Visas seemed to be of the opinion that it was the "will of the Force" that she seek out Revan, and Shayla let them think it. If they could still believe that the Force was some benevolent being, she wanted them to believe it. She wished she could get that certainty back, but once lost faith is a difficult thing to regain.

It was no matter—the former exile had learned to live without faith a long time ago. All she needed to know was that she wanted desperately to escape known space so she could avoid hurting anyone else. _You are a wound in the Force_, Vrook had said. Finding Revan was perfect—partially because it probably couldn't be done and partially because even if she found Revan and her little tear in the Force hurt the galaxy's ravager, it would serve the schutta right.

Shayla breathed a sigh of relief when she reached the hanger without incident. She checked to make sure she had everything she needed in her pack before boarding. Everything seemed to be in order. Her lightsaber was fastened in a homemade pocket in her flight jacket, its familiar presence a comfort to her. She could still hear Bao-Dur's voice in her ear. _A lightsaber is part of who you are. Without it, you are not complete._ Her stomach felt as if it would fall through to her knees, and she fought the feeling. Now was not the time to mourn the death of her friend. She had mourned for the last month when she should have been focusing on saving Atris. That had resulted only in more pain and more death. Now was a time for action.

"You ready to go, woman?" her pilot, Ferkrenn Zhan asked as she boarded the ship, his unshaven face peering back at her from the cockpit. She had found him three days before in Citadel Station's seediest cantina, his polished black boots resting on the table next to a tumbler half full of some kind of intoxicant and a deck of pazaack cards in hopeless disarray, a cloud of smoke from the cigarra in his mouth creating a haze around his person. He had a sharp grin and a shaper tongue—not to mention wandering hands. One of the Bith musicians who was a regular in the cantina pointed him out as a potential pilot, but didn't really recommend it if she wanted to avoid any unwelcome pawing. More sinisterly, he told her, there was an incident with one of the twi'lek dancers that he had tried to take home one night. She turned up dead in one of the station's maintenance shafts three days later, and though the locals widely suspected his guilt, nothing was ever proven. Well, Shay wasn't much concerned with her dignity at that point, and she was pretty sure his wandering hands were no match for her lightsaber.

She approached him the very day she got Revan's hyperspace coordinates off the Hawk's navicomputer. In fact, she still had grease under her fingernails from T3's partial memory wipe. She couldn't bring herself to completely erase the little droid's memories—she only took away enough so that he couldn't come after her. The only thing that was left was to find herself a pilot, preferably one that she wouldn't mind leaving for dead when the time came. And if ever Shayla would want to leave anyone for dead, it would be Ferkrenn Zhan. Better, he was easy to convince. All he needed was a giggle and lean, and suddenly he was as malleable as any of the men Atton had taught her to distract during a game of pazaack.

"Hello," she had said, a coy smile decorating her lips as she rested her hand on the back of the chair next to him. "This seat taken?" He looked her up and down and grinned, tilting his unshaven chin in her direction.

"Nope. Why don't you sit down and I'll buy you a drink?"

"That might be nice." Shayla sat down, biting her lower lip lightly and angling her body towards him. Before he knew it, he was agreeing to fly her to some backwater planet on the outer rim for only 200 credits. It was almost too easy.

The hard part came later, when she was actually on the ship, when she wanted nothing more than to pull her knees into her chest and tug at mousy brown locks until she could no longer hear Atton's mental screaming echo through her skull. Instead, she sat still, her back straight as a board and her face as serene as any Jedi worth her salt. She hoped beyond hope that her new found pilot would not ask about Atton—the crazy man who had rushed into an open docking bay, shouting for the ship to stop. _But he couldn't hear him,_ Shay reminded herself. _Only I could hear him. Maybe he'll assume that Atton was just a nut._

"So," the middle aged pilot said, tossing his silver streaked raven hair as the view out the cockpit window turned to the streaky light of hyperspace. "That cantina rat on the platform an ex-lover of yours?" Shay fought the urge to grind her teeth as her new acquaintance grinned devilishly. _It's your own fault, Shayla Breyis. You chose him because he was the most unsavory individual that you could find on short notice. _She almost winced at the thought. Would she have said the same about Atton only eight months before? Could she forget the lives on her own conscience so easily?

"What's with that blank stare, woman? Was the sex that bad?" A twinge of annoyance itched at Shayla's senses, and for once she clung to the emotion. Ferkrenn Zhan bore the scars of terrible deeds—with none of the remorse that should weigh down his heart. Atton was different from him, and she was different from him, too.

"No. We were never lovers." _Except for that one time. And after six rounds of juma juice, it hardly counts._

"Really now? Do you owe him money? Sex and credits are the only things to make a man like that move so fast."

"A man like what?" Shay shot, her gray eyes narrowing at his tone.

"I've known Atton Rand long enough to know that there are two constants in his life: he's always chasing skirts and he's always short on credits." Shayla's mind raced—suddenly all of her defenses were up. She started a count of the ticks in the engine coupling—_1, 2, 3, 4.._. Curse luck, curse the Force, curse Ferkrenn Zhan. Of all of the pilots in the galaxy, she found one that knew Atton Rand?

"How do _you_ know Atton?"

"Met him back on Nar Shadaa a couple of times. He never did have the backbone to chase after what he wanted. Wasn't the type. So it's either a lot of credits or a lot of sex that he's chasing after. So which is it?"

"Perhaps he's changed," Shayla said, thinking of the Atton she left on the station, the one who held her hand for hours in the Ebon Hawk's medical bay on their way back from Malachor V, the one who stood by her even when he didn't have to. The one who flirted and teased and made her smile. The one who told her the truth of himself, even when it would have been easier to lie.

"You're in love with him, aren't you?" Ferkrenn said, his tone amused and his gaze scathing. He laughed, throwing his scarred face back. "Wow, this is more amusing than I expected."

"No, you are mistaken," Shayla insisted, perhaps a little too quickly. _Aren't you?_ She shook her head to banish the thought. Of course she wasn't. And even if she were, he certainly wasn't in love with her. Soon enough he would find himself a pretty girl and a game of pazaack and forget all about the mousy haired Jedi that had interrupted his life in that cell on Peragus. _That's not true. You took away any chance he had at going back to his old life the moment you showed him the Force. For better or worse, there is no going back for him any longer_.

"Don't lie to me, woman. I know from experience how to spot a woman in love."

"I doubt that," Shayla spat, her tenuous hold on her temper finally snapping.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"No woman would voluntarily touch you without an envirosuit and blaster."

"Now look here—" Ferkrenn said, standing up threateningly and pulling a vibroknife from his pocket. Bao-Dur's remote sputtered angrily at her shoulder, but Shay held up a hand to stop him from firing his small weapons.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

"Why? Your little toy is going to shoot me? I'll take my chances."

"If you try to hurt me, you'll regret it." Shay sat perfectly still as Ferkrenn's face tightened into a deeper scowl. He lunged for her, his left hand grabbing her shoulder as his right hand brought the knife towards her neck—but he never got the chance to follow through. Shayla grabbed his right wrist and twisted deftly. Soon, she had the big man on the ground, his dark eyes staring up at her from the floor.

"You shouldn't touch me again," Shayla said, letting go of his arm. He rubbed his jaw as he got off the floor carefully, wincing as he shook out his shoulder. Shayla strode out of the cockpit and towards her bunk, her face a portrait of Jedi serenity that belied the anger that crawled beneath her skin. She wouldn't be sorry if this journey was the end of Ferkrenn Zhan. She wouldn't be sorry at all.


End file.
